


Fall from Grace

by glassessay



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, M/M, and implied blowjobs, fair warning this is 70 percent goofs, humorous sexual situations, it's in the set up and in relation to the, more or less, unintentional exhibitionism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassessay/pseuds/glassessay
Summary: There was a knock on the door, but Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was uncharacteristically distracted and did not hear it.In hindsight—an inevitable human propensity that Francis had always considered a bitter gift—he rather wished he had.





	Fall from Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is absolutely unconcerned with how they got off the ice but is deeply concerned with making Francis Crozier Suffer™ for the sake of comedy*
> 
> *a term which here means “a situation with all the set up for a comedy that, due to my nature, inevitably ends up being more melancholy and fluff”

 

There was a knock on the door, but Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was uncharacteristically distracted and did not hear it.

In hindsight—an inevitable human propensity that Francis had always considered a bitter gift—he rather wished he had.

Had he heard the knock, he might have leapt out of bed and dressed himself in just enough time for disaster to be averted. Or else, he might have called out to delay disaster’s entrance and save himself from the ensuing calamity.

But fate never seemed to have Francis Crozier’s dignity in mind, and so he did not hear the knock.

Miss Cracroft opened the door and slipped inside his bedroom, and Francis nearly froze from horror.  His prick, unencumbered by the stagnancy of his mind, wilted uselessly; enough to be embarrassing, but not nearly enough to make itself more convenient.

“Sophia—“ Francis choked out around the terror growing in his chest.

The lump of blankets around his lower half stilled, ceasing all ministrations of a manual and oral persuasion. Despite this, Francis’ pulse still thundered at a worrying pace.

For one brief, heart-splitting moment of prescience, Francis saw the situation as if from all possible perspectives. His own, of course, and Sophia’s view of himself sitting half-naked in his bed, face either horribly flushed or terribly pale, and—somehow more worryingly—the perspective of the pile of blankets.

Sound travelled differently in the plush and well-insulated home of his friend Sir James Ross than it had on a Captain’s well-loved, close-quartered ship. Whereas on H.M.S. Terror Francis could have heard one man cough from twenty feet away, his awareness in the townhouse was such that Ross himself had managed to sneak up on him without even trying.

The knock had been soft and the swinging of the door softer. Francis had not even heard the knock, and had he not the benefit of sight he might not have comprehended the reality of Sophia’s actual, physical presence. Though his voice had been tight with shock, he realized with a ice-cold spike of clarity that it could easily have been mistaken for a call of a more amorous nature, and that any hesitation in explanation might engender an amount of doubt and hurt and emotional turmoil that, all things being equal, he very desperately did not want to cause.

Sophia looked at him and said nothing.

He tightened his grip in the lump of blankets’ hair. “What are you doing here?” He asked, voice as tight and unusually high-pitched as one might expect from a victim of strangulation.

The lump of blankets exhaled sharply. The rush of air washed over Francis’ half-cocked parts, and his hips jerked up reflexively. Good Christ and fucking damnit.

Sophia raised her brows.

“I came to say goodbye,” she finally spoke, face inscrutable and not—Francis desperately hoped—delightedly amused. “Aunt Jane and I are leaving tomorrow and I thought to bid you farewell before we quit London.”

“Right.” He vaguely recalled having some expectation of saying goodbye to her today, though in his mind’s eye he had pictured calling on her instead of the other way round and also not being partially nude. “I—er—”

With hesitation came remembrance.  Francis had had every intention of seeing Sophia off, only to have been thoroughly distracted by someone with salacious and persuasive designs.

“I did knock,” she said after his dithering, amusement now plain in her face. Just as his mortification was no doubt plain in his, if he was to judge by the way his skin had begun to flush with a furious heat.

“Yes,” he said weakly, “of course.” He cleared his throat and scrambled for a solution. “Would you mind stepping out in the hall for a moment?” he asked in a clearly pleading bid to remove her presence so he could dress himself and hide his covered bed-fellow.

Said bed-fellow was currently shaking with Francis hoped was only silent laughter, though he would be quite cross if said laughter was at his expense.

“Really Francis,” Sophia smirked demurely, “it’s not as if I haven’t seen it all before.”

The lump of blankets nipped sharply at his inner thigh. Francis briefly considered what it would take to fall down from apoplexy.

“Would you at least turn around?” He asked, knowing when his battles were lost and when a retreat was the best course of action.

Sophia, in a rather unladylike manner that he really ought to have been used to by now, rolled her eyes. She quirked an unimpressed brow at him, then held her hands out to her sides and made quite the production of turning on her heel. Francis did not dare relax once her back was to him, grasping frantically for the set of shoulders under the covers and shoving them pointedly to the side.

The pile of blankets did not move.

“Auntie seems certain that Spain will be the cure for all our ills,” Sophia began as Francis had a silent argument with a lump of wool and obstinacy. “Though I remain unconvinced. Not that I am complaining, being given the opportunity for such an adventure.”

Francis shoved again, but the lump only flattened out along the edge of the bed furthest from Sophia. It was, as Francis could determine from his position _above_ the blankets, not nearly enough of a disguise.

“She has not yet submitted to my applications that we visit Portugal, though I remain determined.”

Francis grabbed a pillow from behind his back and pushed it firmly against a mound that was probably a head. The lump of blankets silently huffed a no-doubt exasperated sigh and then neatly rolled off the far side of the bed.

The quiet _thump_ of a body hitting the floor was as loud as a cannon shot in the small room.

Sophia paused, briefly, and then continued speaking at a slightly louder volume than before. “You know I have never been, Francis, and I imagine it would be a delight to visit. I have recently been reading some poetry from that country, and will admit to having found a particular favorite, though I can never be certain I am pronouncing it correctly.”

Francis fumbled out of bed, grabbing frantically for the closest shirt and trousers possible. God and anyone listening bless a lifetime of naval efficiency; he knew he could dress himself in under a minute when necessary.

Despite it being very, very, necessary, it still took Francis a full minute to pull the trousers on, and he nearly fell over besides. He did eventually manage them, though the lacing was a little tighter than he would comfortably wish it.

Sophia hummed audibly and continued speaking. “Let us see if I remember… _Para carualho ser falta-lhe um U; Adivinhem agora que pau seja, e quem adivinhar meta-o no_ … What was is... Ah, yes— _adivinhar meta-o no cu_.”

There came a noise from the other side of the bed that could not be honestly described as anything other than a startled squawk. Francis froze, shirt still around his head, heart beating loudly in his chest.

Sophia simply coughed pointedly, and continued. “I am certain that enough pleading will turn Auntie to my side, in which case I shall be sure to bore you with as many erroneous details in my letters as possible.”

Francis tucked the tails of his shirt into his waistband and pulled his braces up in one last flurry to make himself decent. No shoes or cravat or vest—he’d be kicked out of any half-way respectable establishment—but at least he was no longer entirely bare.

He cleared his throat and, with one last glance over the now-empty mattress, spoke. “Spain is quite some distance from here.”

“Oh,” she said, turning around to face him. Francis could only hope she took no notice of the fact that the top blanket was now missing from the bed. “It is not so terrible a distance, nor one made any harder by the weather.”

Francis folded his hands together behind his back. “I hope you will not miss home—miss England,” he corrected. "Not too much.”

Sophia smiled, charming and delicate and utterly real. “I find that when faced with opportunity for travel I tend to think of England rather like an old friend.” She reached forward to clasp his hands in hers. “One I will miss dearly, of course, but in such a way that missing makes reunion sweeter.”

“I believe that to be a very reasonable attitude,” Francis said, mirroring her smile with one of his own, small and kind and honest.

“I am glad you agree.”

A clock ticked quietly on the nearby mantle, and Francis heard a soft shuffling sound coming from behind him.

His smile turned tight at the corners.

Sophia leveled him with an unimpressed look. Christ god and all the hells damned. She _knew_.

“Well!” she interjected, squeezing his hands tightly and then relinquishing them, “I really must be going.”

Francis led her out of the room, keeping himself carefully positioned between her person and his bed. When they reached the door he took her hand and kissed it, then straightened back up. “Goodbye, Sophia.”

“Congratulations, Francis,” she said, voice soft and warm, “I believe you may very well be _happy_.” And then, raising her voice in a clear effort to be heard from all corners of the room: “Give my regards to Commander Fitzjames—no one seems to be able to find him and I’m afraid I haven’t the time to wait for him to be _uncovered_.” Then she slipped out of the room and shut the door behind her.

Francis knocked his head against the door and let out a pained whine.

“Well,” said the lump of blankets, which had risen from the floor and revealed itself to be none other than Commander James Fitzjames himself, “that could have gone worse.”

Francis flopped onto the bed with an almighty groan.

“If I had known she was coming I might have been better dressed.”

Francis pushed himself up to a seated position and eyed the other man’s impromptu wrap—and more specifically, the triangle of bare skin from his shoulders to his sternum that it revealed.

“It’s not your worst outfit,” Francis said.

James smiled lightly and sat on the edge of the bed.

His mouth, as befitting its most recent enterprise, was very red. Francis wanted, in a sudden and constant ache of desire, to kiss him.

“I wonder that Miss Cracroft will find Portugal especially diverting, given the company I’m sure she’ll keep,” James said before Francis had the time to act on his longing.

Francis folded his legs beneath him, careful of his knees and the tightness of his trousers. “Well, I expect we’ll have to wait to find out. Miss Cracroft is many things, but I have not generally found _a diligent correspondent_ to be one of them.”

“Perhaps it is your own reticence that is the problem—or am I the only one you so dislike writing to?”

“It is not that I dislike writing you,” Francis said, “only that I prefer you at a distance near enough to make writing redundant.”

James grinned fondly at him and slumped back into the pillows.

Francis rubbed put a hand on his thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth over the soft weave of the blanket. “I would apologize for the interruption but I like to think we’re beyond that now.”

James quirked a lazy brow at him and said nothing.

“Well,” Francis said to move them forward, “we’ve another few hours before the Rosses are due back. And I shouldn’t expect any more unexpected visitors.”

“I rather think that is the whole point of them,” James said dryly, then curled a hand around Francis’ wrist and rubbed thoughtfully at his pulse point. “Francis—“ he started to say, and then stopped.

“Yes?” The set of James’ face was strange, in that it seemed more pensive than Francis might’ve expected from their recent conversation. Perhaps he had truly been perturbed at Sophia’s entrance, or Francis’ reaction, or maybe he had jostled an old injury when he descended—

“Are you wearing my trousers?”

Francis looked down at the hems pushing their way past his ankles and contemplated the likelihood of the earth beneath them opening up and swallowing him whole.

He stood and started tearing at the haphazard lacing in a bid to get them off. James shifted until he was sitting before him, and then swatted Francis’ hands away to tug at the laces himself. Francis contented himself with pulling the edges of the blanket up more securely around James’ shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over the protruding shape of his clavicles.

James stilled suddenly but did not look up at him. Francis made a questioning noise and watched the carefully deliberate rise and fall of James’ shoulders and the subtle pursing of his mouth.

There was a moment in which nothing happened, and then, in a tight and wavering voice, James asked: “Wasn’t the door supposed to be locked?”

The hysteria rose through Francis like a rising wave—at first it was small, quiet chuckles, but over the course of a minute it had transformed into all-out _giggling_ , such that his body was shaking with near-silent, wheezing laugher while his eyes watered from the sheer absurdity of it all. James’ full, bright laugh joined him, until the two of them were snickering like helpless school boys, clinging to each other in order to stay upright.

James tilted his head forward into the meat of Francis’ stomach, face pressed firmly into the cloth of his shirt. His shoulders shook under Francis’ hands, and Francis relished in the solid contact between them once his laughter finally faded away.

James sniffed, once or twice, then heaved a great, shaking, sigh. “Apologies,” he said, voice muffled by fabric and flesh. Francis only grinned and ran his fingers through the other man’s hair.

“I _am_ sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“Really Francis, it was a shock to everyone involved.”

“To every _thing_ involved,” Francis muttered, gaze flicking downward.

James snorted a laugh. “I am confident you’ll rise to recovery.”

Francis framed his hands around James' face and tilted it back up to look at him. James smiled vaguely at him before his gaze flickered down and he shook his head slightly.

Francis frowned. “Is something the matter?” he asked lowly.

James smiled wryly up at him. “Merely being expectedly ridiculous. That is all.”

“Is there something I can do?” Francis asked, even quieter than before.

James shook his head, leaning his cheek into Francis’ palms. “This is quite enough, I believe.”

“You would tell me? If there were something more?”

“Yes,” James said honestly, and then, with the glimmering return of his charming grin and the enchanting warmth of his eyes, said “Though you might begin by kissing me.”

*

Later, once their previous activities had been resumed and then completed to the mutual satisfaction of both invested parties, they lay in lazily curled parentheses, James tracing shapeless drawings on Francis’ bare skin.

“I can’t believe you fell off the bed,” Francis said, breaking the silence with a widening grin.

James lifted his head, brow furrowed with mock indignation. “I was doing as _instructed_ , Francis, and I deeply regret it. I shall never trust another order you give me again.”

“You were right bloody there!”

“And she had known that since she walked in, I am sure of it. There was no need for my—thoroughly dignified—fall from grace.”

Francis barked a laugh, and James pressed an answering grin into the skin of his neck.

Perhaps he would allow himself to survive this embarrassment, Francis thought, then rolled over to kiss all thoughts away.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem quoted is [Soneto do Pau Decifrado](https://poesia.fandom.com/pt/wiki/Soneto_do_Pau_Decifrado) by Manuel Maria Barbosa du Bocage and I would give a translation of the stanza Sophia recites but it has a pun in it and I am not qualified to translate anything in Portuguese, let alone a pun.  
> 
> 
>   * Suffice to say: the body of the poem is like a dirty guessing game describing a dick, and then the last part is basically saying that whoever guesses right will uh… do something the admiralty would Heavily Frown Upon with said dick
>   * It’s literally called “Poem of the Dick Decipher” so
> 

> 
> It’s highly unlikely that Sophia would had known Portuguese, and only slightly more likely that she would have read any poetry in it, but I think it’s funny so  
> 
> 
>   * In a similar vein: would Sophia have known about James’ heritage? No (hence why she’s not quoting Brazilian poets) but she might (in the AU where people survive and everyone decides to be friends) know he speaks Portuguese and be very intentionally ribbing him
>   * Bocage was published (in Portuguese) at the time, though to be quite honest I can’t really tell if he was regularly read in English or by the English but Sophia’s absolutely the kind of person who would source some (relatively) obscure foreign poetry and carefully memorize it to poke fun at someone 
>     * This handwaving falls under the same general category of James “Trust Me I'm English” Fitzjames still knowing his mother(‘s) tongue
> 

> 
> So everyone and their mom on the internet tells me that the first recorded instance of “sorry” used in an apologetic sense was in 1834 BUT NO ONE WILL LINK ME A REPUTABLE SOURCE
> 
>   * anyway
> 

> 
> I am [here](https://glass-es-say.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to say hi!


End file.
